One Step Ahead
by fletching
Summary: A rape is reported, but by the time the detectives get to the scene, the victim and rapist have disappeared. With few clues, they are left with a case that will test them to their limits. Will they be able to find this mysterious victim? E/O? A/O? Review!
1. Chapter 1

"What do we have here?" Olivia Benson stepped through the crowd of police officers until she reached her partner, who was kneeling next to the CSU tech.

Elliot responded without looking up, "Reported rape. Guy who lives upstairs heard a scuffle in the alley, opened his window, and saw a woman struggling with a man. He was close enough to hear her saying 'No' and called 911. Perp must have been spooked by the sirens because by the time patrol got here, there was no sign of him."

Olivia sighed, "And our victim?"

"Nowhere to be found," the tech piped up, "I'm testing the location where the witness says the attack occurred, but so far I've found nothing out of the ordinary. This is a service alley, so people are in and out of here all the time. There are maybe twenty different DNA samples floating around here. No blood, no fluids, no weapons of any sort that I can see," he ruefully stood up and looked the detectives in the eyes, "I'll get my guys to swab everything and test it. Until I get a victim or a perp to compare the samples too, I can't tell you anything else. Sorry," he turned back to his crew, leaving the detectives to sigh with frustration.

Olivia was the first to speak, "We might as well interview the witness again, see if he has anything that can help us." She inwardly groaned. It was four in the morning, and she resented being dragged out of bed for a case that seemed like it had already gone cold. It was dark in the alley, and she shivered a little, pulling her jacket in tighter. Her head ached and her fingers throbbed. She hadn't had time to drink her coffee, having rolled out of bed, into clothes, and to the crime scene. As a result, she had a vice-like caffeine headache and a sour mood. She hoped this interview wouldn't take too long so that she could grab a cup from the deli she'd seen on the corner. After that, she would be her normal self again.

The detectives made their way to 2F, looking around the shabby elevator, "He sure didn't pick a nice neighborhood," Elliot commented, gingerly testing his partner's current mood. He could see the circles under her eyes and the hastily-done makeup that indicated that his partner hadn't been able to get enough sleep last night. He'd crashed in the crib last night, so he wasn't feeling the effects of this early morning call quite as acutely as Olivia was.

"Who does?" Olivia snapped. She immediately felt bad, but not enough to apologize. They'd been partners for twelve years; Elliot knew better than to bother her so early, "He was looking for a rape spot, not a new apartment." She pointed at the door, "Let's just get this interview over with."

Elliot knocked, "Mr. Robinson?" A middle-aged man opened the door.

"Yes?" He seemed nervous, shifting from foot to foot, "Are you the police? Can I see your badges?" He peered at them through the small crack left by his chain lock.

"I'm Detective Stabler, and this is my partner Detective Benson. We're from SVU," Elliot explained, "I know you gave your statement to the police earlier, but it would be extremely helpful if we could speak to you again." They both showed him their badges, putting them close to the door so that he could see them properly.

Satisfied, he nodded, "Of course," he shut the door and the detectives could hear the clatter of the lock before he opened it wide, "Please come in." The detectives stood in the foyer until he beckoned them to the plush couches in the living room, "Sit down." Olivia sat first, noting that the man had every light in his tiny apartment blazing. Though it was the chalky-grey of a city night outside, his apartment was as bright as the afternoon. She stood and went to the window, looking at the CSU techs working a floor below. They were close enough that she could hear their conversation through the closed window. She opened it and was surprised by the fact that she could clearly hear each word that was said, "Part of living on the second floor," Mr. Robinson shrugged, "Would you like some coffee?"

Olivia's mouth dropped open with gratitude, "Yes please." The man scuttled over the kitchen.

"One for you too, Detective Stabler?" He called.

"Yes please," Elliot smiled. Olivia sat on the couch next to him and pulled out her notebook, readying herself to copy down their conversation while still drinking her coffee, "I'll do it," Elliot took her notebook, "I can see from your face that you need the coffee more than I do. Just listen." She smiled at him. She could hear Mr. Robinson clattering around in the kitchen and when he came in holding two coffees, she felt ready to hug him, "Thank you," Elliot took a mug and gave one to Olivia, who put it to her lips and drank greedily, inhaling the wonderful scent, "So Mr. Robinson, you said you noticed the noise around two o'clock?"

The man was sitting in a chair, one leg crossed and one knee pulled to his chest, "Yeah. I was watching TV. I'm a bit of an insomniac," he ruefully smiled, "and sometimes I'll just watch it all night. Tonight was one of those nights."

"How did you hear it over the TV?" Olivia inquired, fingers wrapped around the mug.

He shrugged, "I paused it to go to the bathroom when I heard it. It sounded a little like cats fighting, so I went to the window to yell and scare them away. When I got to the window, I could see a man holding a girl down. He was, you know…" Mr. Robinson looked down in embarrassment, "They were having sex. At least that was what I thought until I opened up the window. I could hear her," he paused again, and Olivia could tell he was struggling with the memory, "she had this little voice, and she kept saying, 'Please, please stop. Please stop.' She was crying too, and sometimes she would say, 'No. I don't want this. Please don't do this. I want to go home,' in this little scared voice, like she was asking him to do her a favor or something. I've never seen a rape before, but I thought she'd be screaming or fighting him. She was just begging him to stop," he rested his chin on his knee and took several deep breaths before continuing, "She had the saddest voice I've ever heard. It keeps echoing in my head; I'd know it anywhere. She had a voice like she didn't know hope, didn't know happiness," he put his head in his hands, "I'm sorry."

Elliot and Olivia exchanged glances, "Mr. Robinson," Olivia gently put her hand on his shoulder, "take a deep breath. Did you see her face?" She kept her voice modulated; she didn't want to scare the man.

He lifted his head a little, "I couldn't get a good look at her. It was dark, you know, and he was obscuring her face. I just stood there for a few minutes, too shocked to move. When I finally regained control of myself, I closed the window and called the police. Then I went back to the window and kept an eye on them," he clenched his hands defensively, his voice raising in pitch and volume, "I didn't want to scare him away, you know. I thought that if I didn't scream and scare him away, the cops would catch him. She had been raped no matter what, but if the cops caught him, at least she'd know that the scum wasn't out on the street," he started to cry, "I had my camera in my hands, waiting for better light, but finally I realized there wasn't going to be any. I took a picture, but it didn't come out properly. There was no flash. I didn't want to scare him away," Elliot and Olivia looked at each other with surprise as he continued to talk, "I wanted to take more, but it was too awful, too terrible. He kept grunting, slapped her face a couple of times. I thought I was going to bust; the cops weren't coming fast enough. But then you could hear the fucking sirens approaching from five blocks away. Gave him enough time to jump up, pull up his pants, grab her, and run. She was crying the whole time, that soft voice begging him to leave her behind," he continued to cry, "I'll hear that voice for the rest of my life." His voice broke and he stopped speaking.

As the female partner, witnesses were often more amenable to Olivia treating them delicately, "Mr. Robinson, may we see this picture?" She held her breath, hoping he hadn't deleted it.

He stood and went to the table, where a small black camera lay, "Here," he handed it over, "Is that all?" He looked exhausted, and Olivia pitied him. The poor man was eaten up with guilt, but at least he'd called the police. Olivia couldn't name how many times witnesses had just ignored a rape or systematic abuse, only revealing how much they knew when the police questioned them.

"Yes, thank you," Elliot pulled his business card out of his pocket and handed it to the shaking man, "If you remember anything, please call us. Good night," he nodded politely as they left the apartment, "Let's drop this off with Morales," he said, gesturing to the camera in her hand, "and then we'll get breakfast. You look as if you could use it."

Olivia sighed and pushed some dark brown hair out of her eyes, "Let's hope he can get something off of it, or this case is stone cold already."


	2. Chapter 2

The detectives sat across from each other at the small diner table, each one absorbed in surveying the menu. Olivia was leaning towards the pancakes and bacon, while Elliot was deciding between the western omelet and the corned beef hash. The diner was quiet, for it was still only six-thirty in the morning, and New York was just beginning to wake up. They could hear the yawn of a tired city: the slumped people walking to work, the buses sailing down the street, and the whoosh of garbage trucks returning to the Sanitation Department. The early morning grey had shifted to a pink that colored the white stone buildings and sifted in between the gaps to dimly light the streets. This was Olivia's favorite part of the day. She loved the brief calm that came before the storm that was life in New York City. Sitting here, in this tiny diner, across from Elliot, looking at her menu and drinking her orange juice, life seemed simple. It was the only time she could ever relax and forget about her job. In the midst of a sunrise, she could forget that there were people out there who would rape a girl in an alley. The witness hadn't lied; the picture was nearly impossible to make out. Unless Morales was able to find anything, this case would most likely fall off their radar. There weren't many more leads they could follow unless one popped up unexpectedly, and Olivia had had enough time on the force to know that sudden breaks were a one-in-a-million occurrence created just to torture detectives and get them to work a cold case for years.

She sighed, mind back on her job. She hated when cases seemingly died before they began. In some way, that was the worst part of her job. Imagining the victim out there somewhere, recuperating from last night's attack, made her ill. It was Olivia's responsibility to help this girl, but how could she do it if she didn't even know where the girl was? "What are you getting?" Elliot's voice startled her out of her reverie. When she looked up, she saw him watching her with concern. His blue eyes shone as he glanced down to his cup of coffee. She looked at his big hands with their half-moon nails pressed against the chipped white mug, and for what felt like the fifteen-millionth time, wondered how those hands would feel against her skin. She hurriedly shook the thought away. Elliot was married – with children – and though she may have been many things, Olivia Benson was not a home wrecker. She'd seen enough of those to last her a lifetime, "Olivia?" he tilted his head to indicate that the waitress was impatiently standing by their side.

"Chocolate chip pancakes with bacon please," she handed over the menu to the waitress, who scribbled the order down and then turned to Elliot.

"Western omelet for me," he smiled.

"Toast?"

"White bread please," he shrugged at Olivia's glare, "So what if I finagle my diet a little? Kathy'll never know." She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms to Elliot's sigh, "Fine. Whole wheat then," the waitress popped her gum as she wrote the order and took the menus away, skirt swinging as she turned. Elliot glanced over at his partner, who was absorbed in unwrapping a straw, "Where should we go from here?" He inquired, stirring his coffee.

"Munch and Fin canvassed the building, but the stores are opening up. Maybe someone has a camera focused on the alley, or they saw something suspicious. We don't have any identifying marks for this girl, which makes her difficult to find," Olivia took a big gulp of her drink before continuing, "Let's hope we get lucky here."

An hour later, they were in _Hans' Deli_, "Are you sure you didn't see anything?" Olivia was helplessly trying to get the employee behind the counter to look at her. He was rushing around the store, restocking it before the morning rush arrived.

A wad of magazines in one hand and a six-pack of beer in the other, the man barely paused to respond, "I work the night shift," the short man had a thick accent that made him difficult to understand, "When I hear something outside, I stay inside. You see the neighborhood," he pointed to the scratched windows, "The guy who work this job before me, he is shot," he then pointed to his stomach, "right here. I got five kids. I stay inside. Sorry I can not help you," he turned around this time, his black eyes sincerely apologetic, "If I remember, I call you."

Olivia tried again, "Does the store have security cameras?" She was surprised at the man's chuckle, but when she followed his finger to the six or seven cameras hung on the ceiling, she understood, "Do any of them face outside?" She couldn't stop herself from being hopeful.

"Only inside," the man shrugged, "Like I say, I can not help you. I promise you, no cameras be pointed towards that alley. If I hear something, I call you," he finished decidedly, and both detectives saw that there was no point in pursuing the interview further, "Good day, Detectives," he smiled, but it was clear that he was ushering them to the door.

Elliot was the first to respond, "Thank you for your time," he tried to be pleasant, "Take my card in case you remember anything. Call whenever," he pointedly emphasized his words. The man hesitantly took the card and put it in his inside pocket, where no one would be able to see it. He was a small, grubby man, but Olivia wished there were more people like him. She knew he would keep the card safe and his ears tuned for information. In some way, she hoped he would provide them with their next lead so that she would be able to see him again. People like this honest cashier gave Olivia hope for the future in a case that was looking increasingly hopeless.

Two hours and innumerable interviews later, the two detectives were sitting in their car, frustrated beyond belief, "A girl's raped in an alley and all we have is one complaining witness and a worthless photograph," Elliot bitterly commented. He picked at the stuffing in his seat, teasing away the frayed leather and pulling out bits of the padding. Over the years, he'd wormed a sizable hole into the cushion, and as a rule, Olivia generally refused to sit there because of it. She found that it made the ride incredibly uncomfortable, and she habitually carped at Elliot to either fix it himself or bring it into the shop to be fixed. Last year, he'd finally listened to her and brought it into the automobile shop. When he'd gotten a two-hundred dollar estimate for the repair, he'd immediately driven out, and now whenever Olivia nagged him, he picked more away in the sense of inalterable rightness that came from saving two hundred dollars on what he saw as a worthless repair. In some way, he liked the uneven padding. It was his own mark on a car that they'd used for years but never been able to modify in any way. Peering through the window, he could always tell when it was his car, for the broken seat gave it away. Most detectives drove around in the unaltered standard issue cars and while they were good for anonymity, they did little to make a person feel comfortable or even provide a sense of ownership for his car.

Olivia slumped in her seat and fiddled with her keys, "I guess we better go back to the station," her monotonous tone stung her ears, "Maybe Munch and Fin caught a break somewhere," she sighed for at least the tenth time since she'd woken up, "And we both have paperwork to finish." She tensed, for she knew that in his current mood, Elliot would explode at the thought of filling out reports.

"Oh fuck!" he yelled, bringing his palm down on the dashboard, "We're going to have to do fucking hours of paperwork for a fucking case that doesn't even have a goddamn victim!" he let out a loud groan, "I hate 1PP, you know that? I fucking hate them. Somewhere, some girl is either dead, being held captive, or trying to piece her life together, and we have to go back to the fucking precinct and fill out paperwork that says we don't know who the hell she is. Does that seem right to you, Liv? Huh? Is there anything just in that? We're the police, not some trained monkeys. And I'm sick of filling out those shitty reports so that the brass can crunch their numbers and balance their budget without a thought to the fact that there are rapists and murderers out there somewhere. I'm goddamn fucking shit tired of it," he finished. Panting for breath, he took a sip of water and leaned back against his seat.

Olivia tried not to roll her eyes, "Now that you're finished with the gratuitous cursing, do you think you're ready to go back to the station?" She was used to Elliot's outbursts. After twelve years, his rants had lost their intimidation and now rested firmly in the camp of annoyances. She knew Elliot's passion was one of the reasons he was such a great detective, but she also was well aware of the many write-ups he had on his record for use of excessive force. She remembered the numerous times she'd been forced to push him out of the interrogation room or rip him off of a suspect when his temper had gotten the better of him. Quite frankly, she wished he would simmer down a bit. It would make their lives a lot easier and would save their poor dashboard the blows he constantly subjected it to. She'd asked him to see Huang once or twice to deal with his rage, but he'd always reacted so viscerally that she'd let it slide. At least he was better now. Earlier in their partnership, he'd thrown chairs against walls and once even gave a suspect a broken arm. Now he hadn't broken a bone or furniture in nearly two years, and she suspected that their growing caseload was born from Captain Cragen's increased trust in Elliot's ability to keep himself under control.

A slight buzzing echoed through the car. Elliot reached for his phone and held it to his ear, "Stabler," he barked. Olivia slapped his arm to get him to behave, "We'll be right over," he snapped it shut. Olivia looked at him with interest, "That was Morales. He says he's got something that we'll want to see."


	3. Chapter 3

Hope you like this chapter. I'm going a little slower than I anticipated, and I'm going to be bringing the detectives' personal lives into the story a little bit more. Please review and tell me what you think!

Olivia shivered as they walked into Morales' office. For some unknown reason, the tech insisted on keeping his office ice cold. It was a modernist office, sparsely decorated with a small framed poster and a little CatDog statue. It was hard to walk around without tripping over one of the computers or the scattered wires that Morales kept lying on the floor. He'd cleared a tiny path from the door to his desk for the detectives to use, and there was even an empty chair if one of them felt like sitting. Morales liked them because they never bothered him about the state his office was in. Most of the detectives would badger Morales from the minute they were told to see him about something. They would text him reminders to clean up and turn on the heat. When they would get to his office, they would stand in the doorway with grimaces on their faces. Sometimes they would sarcastically ask Morales if he wanted them to freeze to death or break their necks tripping over the wires. Some of them would just stand in the doorway and ask Morales to give them whatever information he had found. Many detectives simply refused to meet Morales in his office.

As a result, the man was dragged to the precinct at least twenty times a day – a chore he hated. The Captain was well acquainted with Morales' complaints, and protested that there was nothing he could do to change the situation. Short of Morales cleaning up his office, detectives would force him to come up to the main room. Olivia and Elliot were the only partners who never nagged Morales and never put up a fuss about seeing him in his office. He appreciated that and went out of his way to do little things for them. He would rush their cases and never gave them the hostile stares that so unnerved many of the other detectives.

Now he was sitting in his desk chair, legs crossed, eyes focused on the screen before him. He was frantically tapping the mouse and poking at the keyboard with his stubby fingers, and his unkempt hair looked as though he'd run his hand through it a couple dozen times. The short black strands stuck out at all sorts of angles and Olivia had to press her hands to her side to stop herself from reaching out and smoothing it down. Morales was just as messy about his personal appearance as he was about his office, and he didn't like to be touched, even by his favorite detectives. His skin looked green from the computer light bathing it, and there were dark circles under his black eyes. Elliot coughed quietly and knocked on the door to get Morales' attention. The man whirled around and as soon as he saw them, his face lit up with a smile.

"Elliot, Olivia, so good to see you," he enthused, clapping his hands together with delight, "How long has it been?"

"Two days," Elliot tersely replied. He hated the way Morales gushed over them. If it weren't for Olivia's insistence, Elliot would have thrown in the towel years ago on the overeager tech.

Morales just smiled wider, "Feels like much longer," he gushed, enthusiasm undimmed, "So glad you dropped by. Please, sit."

The detectives just sighed. Olivia sat on the proffered chair. Morales adored small talk, and it was impossible to get out of a meeting with him without suffering through some conversation. Only Munch and Fin were ever known to make the tech shut his face and give them his findings without delay, but that was probably because they'd beaten him up once. They'd fervently denied it, but Olivia knew better. She'd seen the bruises and the menacing glares. She knew Munch and Fin had short fuses, and besides, Morales had told her what had happened. She was just glad that Morales was such an excellent computer person, or she would have joined the long list of people who hated his guts.

"How have you been? Would you like some coffee?" He smiled broadly, hands fluttering everywhere. When he wasn't working with his computers, Morales was never able to sit still. His foot jiggled, his jaw twitched, his eyes flickered around the room. It was like watching a movie in high speed and often made Olivia dizzy, "I assume you woke up early for the case. And what a case," he gave a low whistle. Olivia perked up with hope; maybe Morales wasn't going to engage them in idle chatter for too long, "So early in the morning, at least from the timestamp. Coffee?"

"No thank you," Olivia tried to sound warm and engaging, "We've already drank enough to kill a horse. Don't want to be getting a rabid heartbeat or anything," Elliot just folded his arms and stared at the wall while Morales chuckled, "How have you been?"

Morales tapped his fingers on his armrest, "Simply wonderful. Elisa just turned two last week," he pulled a creased picture out of his wallet, "Here she is. Isn't she gorgeous?" he beamed.

Olivia had seen the picture before, "Stunning," she agreed, "Adorable," Morales loved to show off his daughter; there was nothing she could do to stop him or divert him, "Beautiful photography too." It was a close-up of the little girl's face, and it was in incredible detail. Each one of the girl's eyelashes was visible and clearly distinct. It was almost more focused than real life.

"Photography's amazing now," Morales whirled around to his computer, "I can lighten anything," he pulled up a photograph, "Recognize it?" Elliot leaned forward at the triumph in Morales' voice.

"What is that?" He peered at the screen, "I've never seen it before," he struggled to place the picture in his mind. He could tell from Morales' tone that he had seen the picture before.

"This, my fair detectives, is the photograph that your witness took. Regard, here is your victim, and here is your perp," he looked at their faces for approval, but all he saw was disappointment.

"Morales," Elliot's voice was harsh, "We can't see either of their faces," all that was visible was the man's back, his hands pinning the girl down, the back of his head, and the girl's tiny arms.

He sighed, as if dealing with idiotic children, "Look here," he pointed right above the man's head, "What is that?" When Elliot and Olivia failed to answer, he threw his head back in irritation, "Take a guess detectives, it's your job to observe, isn't it?"

Olivia moved in closer to the screen, "A bag of some sort? Garbage, maybe," she leaned back, "It's not going to be any help."

Morales fell silent, and the room grew eerie. He just looked at her with disgust, lips pursed with annoyance. The detectives twitched under his icy gaze and for a moment, Elliot looked the picture of a penitent child with his head bowed and his hands clasped in front of him, "No help? Why don't you just leave then," Morales muttered, "Why did I call you here if there was nothing in this picture that could help you?" He sounded upset, and Olivia realized that they'd genuinely, if unintentionally, hurt his feelings.

"We're sorry," Olivia was the one to apologize, "We're just very frustrated with the way this case is going. We didn't mean it. We know you're the best technician there is," she looked at Elliot, "El?"

"Sorry," Elliot gruffly mumbled.

Morales' smile returned, "This bag, detectives, is a backpack. And look here," he magnified it, "A brand, and initials," the letters W.A.M could be seen, as well as the small brand name _Southern Valley_.

"Southern Valley?" Elliot asked.

"It's a small backpack manufacturer, based in Westchester," Morales beamed, "An order like this would have had to be customized, done in house. They're sure to have the buyer on record," he stood up and took a fidgety bow, "You're welcome."

"Thank you," the detectives chimed together.

"Thanks a million," Elliot added, "Can we have a copy of the picture?"

"Sure," Morales printed them a blow up of the backpack, "See you soon?" He asked hopefully, eyebrows raised in an uncanny imitation of a sad puppy.

"Of course," Olivia smiled as they left his office, "Bye," she called over her shoulder.

"Bye!" he yelled back.

Elliot was the first one to speak, "He may be a pain in the ass, but he sure as hell is good at his job," he looked at the picture, "This is incredible." He checked his watch, "By the time we get up to Westchester, the office will be closed. I say we leave this one for tomorrow."

"Before you look at the door like it's freedom, remember that we've got to fill out all the paperwork," Olivia smacked his hand away from the _down_ button, and instead hit _up_.

"Great," he mumbled, rolling his eyes, "My first chance to get out of here early in years and you ruin it," he mock glared at her, "Just because you think working until ten is a short day doesn't mean the rest of us have to work like dogs."

"I want to get out of here early too," Olivia cuttingly replied, "For your information, I have dinner plans with Alex, and if I'm late or I bail, she swore she'd stick my ass in jail," she smacked Elliot's shoulder, "So suck it up and we should be out of here in an hour or so."


	4. Chapter 4

"Sorry I'm late," Olivia breathlessly said as she slipped into the chair opposite the blonde lawyer. Alex barely seemed to notice Olivia's arrival; she was so busy typing something on her Blackberry, "Alex?"

"Yeah, sorry," Alex pressed a button and stashed the phone in her bag, "Just one last email that McCoy wanted me to send," she smiled and gestured to the bottle of wine on the table, "I took the liberty of ordering us a bottle. Figured we'd need it." She laughed ruefully.

Olivia poured herself a glass, watched the ruby-red liquid splash into her glass, "That kind of day?" She sympathetically replied.

Alex rolled her eyes and ran her hand through her long blonde hair, "That kind of day," she repeated, "The worst." She laughed a little just at the thought, "How about you?" She adjusted her collar and began to wind a lock of hair around her slender finger – the sign that she was completely and utterly ready to listen to whatever Olivia had to tell her. In the seven long years of their friendship, Olivia had learned to immediately recognize that pose. She loved it dearly, the way Alex would play with her hair for hours, through the longest chat sessions Olivia had ever had.

When she thought back to the rough start they'd had, and how much they'd hated each other at the beginning, Olivia couldn't help laughing. Alex had marched into SVU with her pencil skirts, her blazers, her glacier eyes, and her implacable will, and she'd made quite a few enemies. But none more so than Olivia. Alex had struck her as stuck up, privileged, and inflexible. Olivia had hated her almost from the moment she had laid eyes on her. And for her part, Alex had recounted her own views. She'd thought Olivia was cold, standoffish, and unprofessional. Their mutual hatred had lasted for nearly two years, terse conversations and narrowed eyes the only contact the two of them had. It had gotten so bad that Cragen and McCoy had ordered them to go to dinner together.

That first dinner had started out as badly as their relationship. Olivia had spilled water everywhere and Alex had made some nasty comment about how detectives were boorish and uncivilized. Olivia didn't remember her response, but she did know that it had been a particularly mean one, and that it had cut Alex to the quick. She had seen from the woman's body language that Alex had been hurt, but Olivia hadn't cared. She'd endured too much from Alex over the years to offer an apology. The appetizer had passed in silence, each woman focused on chewing as quickly as she could in order to escape as soon as possible. They had just finished eating their appetizers when the waiters had started rushing to each table, "I'm sorry ma'am," their waiter had been a pale, thin boy with dark hair, black eyes, and nervous hands. His whispered voice had barely reached their ears, "But there's been a disturbance outside and the police have told us that we need to stop patrons from leaving until it's cleared up. We're terribly sorry for the inconvenience," he sounded as sorry as anyone could be.

As he scuttled away, Olivia had slumped in her seat and folded her arms over her chest. A glance at Alex showed that the woman was feeling the same way. Her face was arranged in the immovable anger that Olivia had only seen a few times before. Her eyes were blazing in their crystal-blue fury, and if looks could kill, Olivia would have been as dead as could be. It was the same look that Elliot gave perps during interrogation sessions: the kind of look that made a person feel like dirt. Looking at her dinner partner, Olivia had a mischievous urge to tease her, "Well," she sighed and slouched down in her seat, "this sucks." Alex had narrowed her eyes and folded her arms, "Don't you think so, Councilor? At least it gives us the chance to get closer." A muscle in Alex's cheek jumped in irritation. Olivia had leaned over the table and made her voice soft and sensuous, "And I would love to get close to you, if you know I mean," she winked suggestively.

It worked. Alex looked as though her head was going to explode, "Listen, _detective_," she'd hissed, "I don't know what you think you're doing, but I would rather be dropped in boiling water than spend any more time with you. You cheap, boring, stupid bitch," Her hands were shaking with anger and she was struggling to keep her voice under control, "Don't you dare speak to me like that again. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

The two had fiercely stared at each other, blood boiling, fists clenched, until suddenly, Olivia had started to laugh. Alex had watched her with shock until her own mouth began to twitch and she too laughed out loud. In that one, odd moment, the tension simmered down and the two women forgave each other, if only a little.

It hadn't been smooth sailing, but from that moment on, their relationship thawed until, a few months later, they realized that they were best friends. It was an unlikely pairing. Besides for being physically different, the two women had very different temperaments. Alex was more gregarious and haughty, Olivia introverted and down to earth. Alex was more comfortable with her intelligence. After hundreds of thousands of dollars and almost two decades spent on her schooling, she had no qualms showing it off. After all, wasn't that what she did for a living every day? Comparatively ill-educated, Olivia was privately scholarly, but given her lack of any sort of college degree, she rarely ventured to comment on things she thought were beyond her. Most of their fights in the last few years stemmed from Alex's frustration with her friend. Olivia was smarter than she realized, Alex argued, and if she would just put herself out there a little more, people would realize it. Olivia would steadfastly shake her head and refuse to speak about anything more intellectual than a football game.

"We caught an interesting case today," Olivia began, twisting the napkin in her hands, "Rape in an alley. One witness."

"The vic?" Alex asked, taking a deep sip of her wine.

"Young girl. No idea how old. Probably early to late twenties," Olivia enjoyed the look of fascination that crossed Alex's face, "Witness took a picture." Alex's eyes widened with interest.

"What do you mean you don't know how old she is? A picture?" Alex's leg jiggled up and down, "How did the witness get a picture?"

"Victim and rapist up and disappeared. The witness was a tenant on the second floor. He heard the scuffle and took a picture," she paused, relishing the anticipation on Alex's face, "Morales got something off it."

"What, what?" Alex sounded like a little girl at Christmas. She always found Morales' incredible technological finds awe inspiring, and her favorite parts of cases were often Morales' leads.

"A bag," Olivia leaned back in her seat, "A monogrammed bag. El and I are going to track it down tomorrow. Hopefully find the girl."

"What do you mean she disappeared?"

Olivia shrugged, "Sirens scared the perp off. By the time the patrol car got there, they were gone with the wind," she sighed, "It's a hell of a case." From the expression on her face, Alex could tell that in spite of her big words, Olivia was anxious and tired.

"How about we cut this dinner short, go back to my place, snuggle up, and watch movies until we pass out," Alex grinned, "I'll supply the popcorn if you bring yourself."

"Oh no," Olivia protested, "You've been looking forward to this dinner for weeks! What kind of shitty friend would I be if I bailed on you now?"

Alex leaned forward, "Honestly Liv, I'm dead tired. No offense to you, but I'd sell my mother if it meant getting ten hours of sleep," she raised her hand for the check, "I've got some leftover Chinese at my house. We'll eat that and fall asleep. Sound good?" One look at the bags under Olivia's eyes, and Alex knew she'd made the right decision. Olivia raised her hands in a mock surrender as Alex laughed, "All right then. Glad to see we're on the same page."

An hour and a half later, Alex was putting a blanket over a prone Olivia, who was taking up the whole couch, "Mnhmghhm," Olivia mumbled, swatting Alex away, "Lemme 'lone." Her hair was fanned over her face and her eyes squished shut against the light. The normally tense muscles in her cheeks had relaxed, and for once, she didn't look as if she were ready to pull a gun out at any moment.

Alex quietly chuckled, "Night Liv. See you bright and early tomorrow morning." With a small cackle, the lawyer retreated to her bedroom and quickly fell sound asleep. Neither knew what tomorrow would bring.


	5. Chapter 5

"Hey," Olivia snapped her fingers in front of her partner's eyes, "Wake up. We need to get going in ten minutes." Elliot's eyelids barely moved, "El!" She shoved him to the side, "Wake up!" Elliot flopped over and sighed. He'd come over two hours ago and fallen asleep on Alex's couch. They were supposed to leave when he'd arrived, but he'd been so tired after a sleepless night with Eli that he'd begged for a nap, and Olivia hadn't had the heart to refuse. Alex had only shot her a warning glare before leaving a pot of coffee on the counter and a croissant in the fridge for Elliot's breakfast. Olivia rolled her eyes and put her lips to Elliot's ears, "Wake up El," she whispered, "Kathy's on the phone."

He bolted up, falling to the floor in a mess of blankets and flailing limbs, "What does she want? What's wrong?" He jumped to his feet, "Is something wrong with Eli?" When he saw Olivia sitting on the coffee table, he narrowed his eyes, "Why?"

She laughed, "Because it's ten o'clock and we've got to go," she handed him a thermos of coffee and his croissant, "I'm driving."

"That wasn't funny, Liv," Elliot put his coat on before helping Olivia with hers, "I really freaked out there for a minute." He took a bite of his breakfast, "No need to be mean."

Olivia laughed again, "If I hadn't been mean, it wouldn't have been funny, and you wouldn't have woken up," she locked Alex's door and deposited the keys in her pocket. Noting the look Elliot gave her, she held her chin up a little higher, "We're both single. It's good to have someone with a spare set of keys. You know, just in case," she said defensively, "I know what you're thinking and it's not true. Alex and I are and will always be just friends. I'm not gay and neither is she," she shoved him to the side, "Now shut up and get in the car. I'm driving." She opened the door and typed the address into the small GPS they'd bought a year ago, "And don't spill any coffee."

"Yes Mom," he intoned, rolling his eyes. She noticed that he placed the cup very carefully into the holder before pressing the radio button, "What? I want to listen to music," he sighed before pressing it again, "I don't understand why you never let us listen to music."

"Oh shut up and turn it on," she sighed. Elliot could be a child sometimes, and the fact that there was always a bit of tension between them never made anything better. It took all her strength not to slap him across the face or kiss him. She was never quite sure which one she was leaning towards, "I just didn't want to listen to the shit you think is music. Don't you dare turn on 106.7. You know I hate those soft oldies."

"Yes Mom," Elliot repeated, "I know," he turned the dial to 101.1, "I wish they would let us get satellite radio."

"Sure. That would look good in the middle of a recession," Olivia snipped, "turn it up a bit please?"

"All right," Elliot turned the volume up before taking another sip of his coffee, "Liv? Do you mind if I sleep for a while? I'm still exhausted," he stretched, "I knew having another kid would be hell, but I forgot just how terrible all those sleepless nights were."

"Yeah sure. Sleep away," she smiled at him, "Lucky I never had to deal with that."

Elliot shrugged, "I don't know. I think you would have been a great mom. Night Liv." He curled up and promptly fell asleep, leaving Olivia to her own thoughts. A great mother? Hardly. She had a job that demanded seventy hours a week and gave crappy pay. Raising a kid in New York City was expensive, and she couldn't have afforded a two bedroom in a neighborhood with good public schools on her salary. With private school tuitions running over thirty thousand dollars a year, there was no way she would have ever been able to pay that. Besides, she didn't have a husband or boyfriend to help her out. After her own single-parent childhood, Olivia had sworn that she would never bring a child into the world without another person to be there for him or her.

Did she even want a child? What did having a child mean? She'd seen Elliot raise his five kids, but Olivia felt as though she had as little knowledge of what parenthood was like as the frightened teens she saw every day. In her mind, a child was someone to love and worry about. She couldn't imagine diaper changes, teething, parent-teacher conferences, or teenage angst. What did it mean to take a child to school every morning or help her apply to college? Could she sit through tears ranging from a baby's wails to a teenager's broken heart? What did Elliot see in her that she didn't see in herself? Or was he just fucking with her mind?

After an hour of such musings and a brief spurt of traffic, they pulled into the parking garage of Southern Valley Inc, "El," she shook her partner's shoulder, "El, wake up. We're here."

He yawned and stretched his arms like a cat, "Okay. Gimme one sec," he rubbed his eyes and took a sip of his now cold coffee, "Blech," he made a face, "that's nasty. Let's go," he stepped out of the car and they made their way through the parking lot to the lobby.

"Can I help you?" the young woman behind the front desk looked at them above thick-rimmed glasses.

"Yes. We're from the NYPD, we're here to inquire about a backpack that your company made," Elliot began, holding his badge out. The woman smiled and batted her eyelashes at them, "Just a few questions, nothing major. We just need to know who ordered a certain backpack."

"Of course," she smiled widely, "You'll want to speak to Ms. Amstin about that. She's the VP in charge of shipping. I'll call her office right now," she picked up the phone and wound a strand of hair around her finger, "Hello, Charlene? This is Bea. I've got the police here. No, no, nothing big. They just want to ask Ms. Amstin a question or two. Is she free? Okay, sure. Thanks," she hung up and turned to the detectives, "Ms. Amstin is free. Her office is on the third floor," she stood up, revealing a toned body and a curvy figure. Olivia had to swallow hard before she could listen, "Take that first elevator. When you get to the third floor, make a right and continue down the hallway. Ms. Amstin's office is at the end."

"Thank you," Olivia cut in, "You've been very helpful."

"I do what I can."

A few minutes later, they were walking into Ms. Amstin's office. They were greeted by a tall, stocky woman with dyed red hair and dark eyes, "Hello officers," she gestured at the chairs, "Please sit. I'm Sarah Amstin. Charlene said you had a few questions for me? Do you mind if I see your badges and ask what unit you're from?" Her eyes nervously paced their faces. Olivia could tell this woman had never come in contact with the police before.

They pulled out their badges and held them up for her inspection until she nodded in satisfaction, "I'm Detective Benson and this is my partner Detective Stabler. We're from Special Victim's Unit."

"Special victims?" She queried, looking even more nervous.

"Sexually based crimes," Elliot explained, tensing as the woman looked as though she was going to faint. She hung onto the edge of her desk for support until the green color drained from her face and she didn't look so ill.

"Ah, I see," she managed to whisper, "How can I help you?"

"Ms. Amstin, we're looking for someone who we believe owns one of your bags."

"Well, our bags are distributed all over the tristate area. I can't tell you where one was sold. Is this person in trouble?"

"Oh no, she's just a potential witness to a crime," Olivia smiled, trying to put the skittish woman at ease, "this bag was monogrammed, so we were hoping you might have a record of it."

"Of course," the woman sat behind her desk and started tapping away at her computer, "Can you tell me a little about the bag?"

Olivia pulled the picture out of her pocket, "Here's a photograph of it."

Sarah took it, "Ah, that's our mountaineer version. Looks like it's black with light grey lettering. Spencerian script," she laughed, "Don't think I'm crazy. I live and breathe these products. I helped build this company you know. Built it up from the ground. It's my job to know everything there is about the products," she typed a little more, "W, a, m," she pressed enter and paused for a moment, "Oh! I'm being so rude. Would you like some water or something?" She anxiously tapped her fingers against the desk.

"No thanks, we have a long drive back to the city soon. No need for bathroom breaks," Olivia replied. Elliot shot her a look. He always wanted water, but then he was always the one who insisted they stop the car so he could pee. Olivia was certain he had a bladder the size of a lima bean.

"Here it is," she turned the screen towards them, "that particular bag was sent to Mount Hope. You know, the school."

"And can you tell us who ordered the bag?"

"I'm sorry," she shook her head, "Mount Hope does all their ordering in bulk. They process the orders and send them to us as a whole. We just send them the lot and then the school distributes them. But I can tell you that this bag you're looking for was most certainly sent to Mount Hope. I'm sorry I can't be more helpful."

"No, thank you," Olivia assured her, "You've been wonderful. Thank you for everything."

"Would you like something to tide you over until you get back to the city? It's almost lunchtime," she called as they turned to leave.

"No, thank you," Olivia cut in before Elliot could answer.

The two of them made their way back to the car, "I could have used something to eat," Elliot said haughtily.

"You ate two breakfasts. Let's just get to Mount Hope by the time school lets out, okay?" Olivia replied.

"Fine, but I'm driving," Elliot jumped in the driver's seat before Olivia had a chance to argue, "If I can't eat or drink, I need something to distract me."

"Whatever," Olivia took the passenger's side and put the radio on, "Let's go."


	6. Chapter 6

**Please review! It's great to see how many people are reading the story, but I would love a little more feedback! It helps me write faster and better!**

Mount Hope was the oldest girl's school in New York City. Situated on Fifth Avenue and Ninety-first Street in a row of old mansions, it was also the most beautiful. It had a reputation of being the most difficult and comprehensive private school in the city, and there was fierce competition among New Yorkers for the fifty spots in each grade. Having a daughter who was a "Hope girl" was a reason to brag, and parents coveted the honor and distinction that came with such recognition. A Hope girl would work herself to the bone for four years of high school and be rewarded with her pick of elite colleges and the knowledge that she had just graduated from the same school as socialites, judges, authors, and brilliant scientists. To be a Hope girl once was to be a Hope girl for life, and reunions were known to occur among classes that had graduated over sixty years before. As the detectives pulled their car to a stop before the formidable buildings, they shivered. What did a rape in a dirty uptown alley have to do with this privileged school?

"You ready?" Olivia pulled the elbow of Elliot's jacket as they ascended the steps. When they stepped in the lobby, they were overwhelmed. The floors were marble, the ceilings covered with paintings. An older woman sat behind a dark mahogany desk, filling out some notes. Her white hair was elegantly coiffured, and she wore a long strand of pearls around her neck, "Excuse me, ma'am?"

Her neck snapped up and she looked at the detectives in fear, "Yes?" She eyed their jackets and pants, pupils dilating at the unfamiliar sight of polyester, "Can I help you?"

"We're from the NYPD," Olivia was the woman, and as such, easier for old women to relax around. She pulled her badge out and displayed it. Sometimes she wished she could just get it tattooed on her forehead so she wouldn't have to do this so much, "We're here about a backpack."

The woman giggled nervously, "A backpack? I didn't realize that required the services of two police officers."

"We're looking for a potential witness to a crime. Is there any way we could speak to the Headmistress?"

"Oh dear," the woman fluttered around, knocking a stack of papers on the floor. Elliot courteously leaned over and picked them up for her, flashing her a smile as he straightened up, "I believe she's just finished a meeting. Her office is down that hallway, the third door on the left. Her assistant will tell you if she's free." As they walked away, the woman watched them, visibly glad that they were leaving.

"Boy," Elliot muttered, "boy." They passed by a line of little girls in starched white blouses and pleated grey plaid skirts. Looking around, one quickly realized that it was a strict school with a strict uniform. But of course, how could Mount Hope produce leaders if it had lax rules? The girls looked at the passing detectives with wide eyes, whispering furtively into their neighbors' ears.

"Girls, silence," the teacher called from the front of the line, and the girls were immediately quiet, "Keep walking," she ordered, and the girls followed without a sound.

"Sort of wish I'd sent my girls here," Elliot commented under his breath, "they would have learned control, that's for sure." He opened the door and ushered Olivia in.

"Yes?" The assistant stood, "Who are you?"

"NYPD, may we speak to the Headmistress?" This time Elliot was the one to speak. The assistant looked him up and down.

"Well," he hesitated, "I'll tell her you're here. She might be busy."

Elliot slammed his hand down on the desk, "Listen. We're not here for fun, or from some kind of desire to look at the school. When we say we want to see the Headmistress, we mean now.

"El," Olivia grabbed his arms and pulled him back, "Please," she smiled at the assistant, "It's been a long day."

The man nodded his head, visibly disturbed, as he backed away and into the office, "Mrs. Halley?" they could hear his voice tremble, "The police are here. They want to speak to you. They say it's urgent," he shuffled back into the room, "Go right ahead."

"Hello," a thin blonde woman leaned over the desk and shook their hands. She wore a neatly tailored skirtsuit and an Hermes scarf loosely tied around her neck. Her hair was pinned up and she wore the barest traces of makeup on her finely sculpted face. She exuded class and charm, and next to her, Olivia felt like a dowdy, hulking being, "I'm Mrs. Halley, the head of Mount Hope. You are?"

"I'm Detective Stabler, and this is Detective Benson," Elliot calmly stated the familiar refrain, "We're here just to ask you a few questions."

"Of course," she gestured for them to sit in the plush chairs in front of her desk, "Anything I can do to help the police."

"We're looking for the person who ordered this backpack," Olivia pulled the picture out, "It's a Southern Valley backpack. Mountaineer make, black with grey lettering. The company says it was ordered by your school."

"Let me just look in the system. What are the initials?" The woman tapped at her computer, "We've automated the whole ordering process."

"W.A.M."

"Let me see," she chewed on her lower lip as she scanned the files, and the flaw somehow made her seem more human, "Ah, here it is. W.A.M. It was ordered by," she paused, "Oh dear, it seems as though the girl who ordered it didn't leave her name," she looked up, "We have them print up order forms, but it looks like she didn't put her name and she paid in cash," she furrowed her brow, "I'll have to speak to my assistant about This is strictly against protocol," she tapped her phone, "Tyler, come in here please."

"Yes ma'am," the young man stuck his head around the door and fidgeted at the sight of six eyes focused on him.

"Tyler, this backpack order is nameless. The detectives wish to track this girl down, and you failed to put the information down. Why?" Her voice was flinty and the assistant flinched.

"I'm sorry ma'am, let me look at the order, maybe I can remember who placed it," he scurried over to the computer, "W.A.M," he paused, "I'm sorry, I can't remember."

"Do you think you could check to see which one of your students has those initials?" Olivia broke in.

"She doesn't have them," the assistant replied. At the confusion on the others' faces, he quickly added, "I don't remember who placed the order, but I do remember thinking it was odd because those weren't her initials. It was definitely a high school girl though. Definitely. I'm sorry." He rushed outside, leaving the detectives crestfallen and Mrs. Halley annoyed.

"We have two hundred girls in our high school division," the woman began, "If you would like, I can bring you to each class and you can ask the girls if they recognize this bag," seeing the looks they gave each other, she backtracked, "Or if that's too much, I can call the high school teachers down here and you can ask them. Or you can speak to the girls individually. Whatever makes your job easier," she looked so anxious to help that Olivia felt bad for judging her, "What department did you say you were from again?"

Olivia's heart sank, "Special victims," she paused, "We investigate…"

"I know what you investigate," Mrs. Halley's voice was flat, "I could just kill that assistant now," she started to pace up and down the room. Olivia could see her hands shaking, "Is one of my girls, is she hurt?"

"There was a rape reported yesterday, and we think that this girl might be the victim," Olivia tried to keep her voice gentle, "But we don't know anything until we can talk to her. Could we speak to the teachers? The teachers' lounge might be the best place."

"Sure, of course," the woman shakily nodded her head, "I'll show you. Follow me." They were lead up two flights of stairs and down a hallway, "This is the high school," Olivia noticed the pride in the woman's voice as they looked around and saw compact classes with light streaming in through the windows, "The lounge is right…Detective?" She inquired.

Olivia was staring at a girl by a locker. She was of average height, with a light brown ponytail she wore flicked over one shoulder. She wore the school uniform, with the skirt falling a few inches above her knees. She wore a short-sleeved white blouse and a dark grey sweater, but Olivia was struck by the girl's feet. She was wearing dark brown penny loafers with crumpled white socks, and her right foot was absent-mindedly scratching her left leg as she rifled through the locker in front of her. Leaning against the locker was a backpack. A black bag with light grey lettering. W.A.M to be exact. Olivia pointed and both Elliot and Mrs. Halley gasped, "Miss Evans?" The girl turned, and Olivia could see the fear in her eyes, "Would you come to my office, please?"

The walk downstairs was silent. The detectives watched the girl, who looked at her feet as they processed into Mrs. Halley's office. The assistant gave them a curious glance as Mrs. Halley ushered them inside.

"Please, use the office for as long as you would like," Mrs. Halley told the detectives, "I'll be roaming around if you need me. And Tyler won't be in his office either," she tried to smile at the frightened girl in front of her, "Miss Evans, the detectives are only here to help."

"Hi," Olivia began. In interviews with young female rape victims, Elliot tended to fade into the background until they could discern if the girl was uncomfortable around him or not, "I'm Olivia, and this is my partner Elliot."

"Hi," the girl ventured, "I'm Ophelia. Am I in trouble or something?"

Olivia laughed, "Of course not. Do you know why we're here?" The girl shook her head, "Well," Olivia paused. Beginning questioning was always the hardest part, "I like your backpack."

"Thanks," Ophelia shifted in her chair. She looked even more nervous than before, and her eyes kept flickering from one detective to the other.

"Why W.A.M, if those aren't your initials?" The girl just shrugged. She was going to be a difficult nut to crack, Olivia could tell, "Ophelia, Elliot and I are detectives. We investigate sexually based offenses. Rape, abuse," she stopped. Ophelia's face was sheet white, "Are you all right?"

"Yea…yeah…" she stammered, "keep going."

"Has anyone been hurting you?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" Olivia pulled out the photograph, "See this backpack? It was photographed during a rape. We tracked it down, and it's right there," she pointed to the backpack lying at Ophelia's feet, "You can trust us."

"No one's raped me," Ophelia straightened up, "I want to go back to class now. Do I have to stay here?"

"Ophelia, honey," Olivia gently began, "we want to help you."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Ophelia looked at the door, "Let me go back to class."

"Are you sure you don't want to talk to us?"

"Listen, you don't know anything. Just leave me alone. You probably got the backpack wrong."

"Not possible. That's the only backpack of its kind with those initials the company's made."

Ophelia fell into her seat, "Oh my god," she whispered, hand over her mouth, "Are you sure?"

"Is something wrong?" Elliot leaned in, "Anything you want to tell us?"

She stared vacantly for a moment before snapping back to reality, "No. I'm going to go back to class. Thank you detectives." She hastily left the room, and the two detectives looked at each other.

"She's hiding something," Elliot observed, "She knows something she's not telling us."

"Let's go back to the precinct," Olivia answered, "We'll figure it out from there."


	7. Chapter 7

"Ophelia Ray Evans," Munch pulled up the girl's picture on the screen, "sixteen years old. A sophomore at Mount Hope. Has one older brother named Jackson, lives in a brownstone on Sixty-third Street," he pulled up a picture of her parents, "Her father is Peter Evans, of the Evans publishing company. Needless to say, they're as rich as Midas."

"Not a traffic ticket on any of them," Fin sourly observed, "The father spends most of his time working and the mother pops up in the society pages every week. She runs a charity dedicated to helping fund schools in the South Bronx. The brother is a junior at Pomona."

"Can he be a suspect? She wouldn't be likely to tell on her brother," Olivia asked, but was quickly discouraged.

"No way. Pomona is still in session, and it's a five hour flight just to rape his little sister."

"Father?"

"He's in Europe."

Olivia groaned, "Why won't this case give us a break?"

"Mrs. Halley from Mount Hope just called," Cragen stalked into the office, "And she wants to know how the case is going. I told her I couldn't divulge, but how _is_ the case going?"

"Like shit," Elliot threw the words out there, not caring who heard them.

"Watch your mouth, detective," Alex smiled, "Update me." She looked at the screen, "Is this our vic? Ophelia Evans? Of the Evans family?" She turned to the detectives, "The two of you better be treading with silk shoes around this investigation. The Evans family is are big donors to my boss, and he won't like if you pull the trigger without rock-solid evidence. Did the girl give you a statement?"

"None. She spooked as soon as she saw us. Shut her mouth and wouldn't tell us a thing. She knows something, I can tell. She's just too afraid to say anything. She's covering for someone she really loves," Elliot said.

"Well, I can't get anything on your gut, so you better get a statement from her. Don't you dare prematurely jump this one, you two," she laughed as they groaned.

"Cap'n, maybe you better put Munch and I on this case," Fin replied, "Given that these two can hardly step into a school without ruffling feathers."

"Oh yeah, like you and Munch are such a svelte pair," Elliot retorted, "One look at you, and she'll go running for the hills."

"At least she'll have something good to look at while she's running," Munch countered, "I still have all my hair, unlike some of us."

Elliot put his hand to the top of his head, "I just wear it short. Liv?" He called, desperate for backup.

Olivia held up her hands in a mock surrender, "I don't get involved."

"Game, match," Munch and Fin high-fived, laughing in Elliot's direction, "All men without receding hairlines, please stand up!" Cragen just folded his arms and pouted, leaving Elliot to sit down in fury.

"If you've finished, you've got a case to work," the smile on her face belied Alex's words as she checked her watch, "School's letting out. Interview Ophelia again and see if you can get anything more from her. And call me the moment you get something worthy of a court order. I want this case to have dotted I's and crossed T's. Got it?"

"Yes Mom," the two detectives chimed.

When they reached Mount Hope, the girls were just beginning to file out of the doors and into the street. Most headed for Central Park, laughing aloud at the prospect of lying outside in the beautiful weather. The detectives waited against the building, scanning each of the girls who walked through the door until they saw Ophelia. She was walking with a group of friends, giggling at something one of them had just said. Her pale face looked much better with happiness on it, and she had a spring in her step that had been missing earlier. The group of girls headed towards the park, but Ophelia turned and started to walk down the block. Upon seeing her back, the detectives exchanged glances. She was carrying two backpacks. One that they'd seen before, and a different one that looked just like it. She was hunched under the weight, as both bags were bulky.

They jogged ahead to catch up with the girl, "Do you need some help?" Olivia held her hand out, "Those look heavy."

She stopped and glared at them, "What are you doing here?"

"We just came by to talk to you again. Do you mind if we walk you home?"

"I'm just going to the subway station," Ophelia's eyes were narrowed, "You can leave me alone now."

"Ophelia, we want to help you. Whoever is hurting you doesn't have the right," Olivia urged, "Please tell us what's going on." She wavered, and Olivia knew they were close, "No one deserves to be raped."

"If I tell you, do you promise not to tell anyone that I said anything?" She was glancing around nervously.

"We'll see what we can do."

"This isn't my backpack," she took a deep breath, "but if I tell you whose backpack it is, you have to promise not to tell her I told you. Swear." The detectives nodded, "You swear?"

"Yes," Elliot answered.

Ophelia lowered her voice so that they had to lean in to hear her, "It's my best friend's bag. Her name is Imogen Tanner. She lives in 44 East Sixty-Eighth Street. Do you understand, I never told you anything. She'll kill me if she finds out."

"Why do you have her backpack?"

"She didn't come to school yesterday or today. So she left it for me to bring to school for her and fill it up with all her stuff. She said she was sick…" Ophelia trailed off and Olivia could see that the girl was ready to cry, "I didn't know. I'm going to drop it off at her house tomorrow. She said she wasn't up to seeing people today."

"It's not your fault. You did the right thing by telling us," Olivia put her hand on the girl's arm, "We won't breathe a word to Imogen about how we found out. Thank you." Ophelia brushed her off and hurried down the street.

"Time to interview our elusive victim," Elliot sighed. He hated interviews more than anything, especially with young victims. By the time they reached the house, he had worked himself into a state of profound agitation, and he could barely keep still. He reached out and rang the doorbell.

"Who is it?" A young girl's voice barely reached them.

"NYPD," Olivia held up her badge to the eyehole.

"Go away," came the frightened voice, "We don't need the police."

"Imogen Tanner? We've received a report that your backpack was stolen," Elliot deftly lied, "Can we speak to you about it?"

"My bag wasn't stolen," Imogen whispered, "Please go away."

"Please let us in, we just have a few questions for you," Elliot smiled, "We hate to trouble you, but we need to clear this whole matter up. Our captain is serious about us finishing reports."

"One second," they could hear the door unlock and as it opened a crack, a grey eye peered out, "Come in," Imogen opened the door a little more and then slipped, wraithlike, into the house's interior. She was wearing a thick sweatshirt and a pair of baggy sweatpants. The hood of her sweatshirt was up, and from behind, Olivia had no concept of what the girl looked like. She ushered them into the living room and pointed to the couch, where the wary detectives sat. When she perched on the armchair across from them, Olivia was struck by how small she was. She looked like a little bird, with wispy brown hair and big grey eyes. She was so small that she looked no older than thirteen. She sat with one knee pulled to her chest and the other leg crossed, and her tiny wrists suck out of the giant sweatshirt. Her fingernails were worn and bitten, and Olivia noticed the odd tinge of her skin. Upon inspection, it had the peculiar look of foundation, and Olivia could see that the girl had covered nearly her whole face with makeup. In spite of this, she still had dark smudges under her eyes that indicated she hadn't slept well in days, maybe weeks. Curled up on her armchair, she looked fragile enough to shatter in the slightest wind.

"Imogen, I'm Detective Benson, and this is my partner, Detective Stabler. You can call me Olivia, and he goes by Elliot."

"Hi," her eyes were focused on the whorls of the coffee table that separated them.

"We received a report that your backpack was stolen."

"It wasn't," she murmured.

"Well, we had a person call in and say he saw it in an alley in Washington Heights two nights ago. We tracked it down, and it seems that there's no doubt the backpack was yours," Olivia looked at the girl. Imogen seemed as though she was going to faint. She clenched her hands together and stared resolutely at the table, "Is there any way your backpack could have been there?" Imogen minutely shook her head, "Have you ever been there?" Imogen shook her head again, "Imogen, if anyone's hurting you, you can tell us," startled, the girl looked up, "That's our job, to protect you. We can put him in jail, stop him from hurting you."

The girl opened her mouth, as if to answer. Then her cellphone buzzed. She picked it up, pressed a button, and her eyes widened in panic, "You have to go."

"Imogen…"

"Please, please leave," she cried, and Olivia froze. It was that voice. The voice their witness had described. A voice that sounded as though it would never see the sun again. A voice so laced with sadness and desperation that it made Olivia's heart break. As the detectives stood, the front door opened.

"Lolly, I'm home," a man's voice cried, "Where's my…" he trailed off. Standing at the doorway, his eyes narrowed, "What's this? Imogen? Who are these people?"

"Daddy…" she sounded as though she wanted to die. She looked at Olivia and Elliot, and they could clearly see that her delicate eyes were pleading with them to save her.

"I'm Detective Stabler, and this is Detective Benson," Elliot stepped forward and offered his hand to the man, "We received a report from the school that something of your daughter's might have been stolen, but she assured us it was just a mistake. Thank you Imogen, for being so courteous, and for letting us waste your time," he shook Mr. Tanner's hand and smiled goodbye to Imogen before shaking her hand too.

"Any time," Mr. Tanner put an arm around his tiny daughter's shoulders, "Always glad to be of service to our men and woman in blue," he led them out.

"I didn't like him," Olivia observed, "Did you see how she shuddered when he touched her?"

"That's our victim," Elliot responded quietly, looking at the door that was now firmly closed against them, "but who the fuck has her so terrified?"


	8. Chapter 8

"Did she give you anything?" Alex was sitting on Olivia's desk, dying for information. One look at her, and Olivia laughed.

"She's not our victim," and with that, the detective was somber again, "The bag wasn't hers. It belongs to her best friend. An Imogen Tanner."

Alex groaned, "If she's best friends with Ophelia Evans, her family's sure to have money."

"Imogen Tanner," Munch began proudly, "also sixteen years old. Also a sophomore at Mount Hope. Lives with her mother and stepfather. Her parents were divorced before she was born. It seems Mister Tanner adopted Imogen when she was three."

"Daddy dearest," Fin dryly commented.

"Imogen's biological father is a Kenneth Jones. He lives out in the Silicon Valley, runs his own dot-com startup."

"What about step-dad?"

"He's a hedge fund guy, pulls in about thirty million dollars a year," Munch whistled, "very active on the New York Landmark committee. Seems Nicholas Tanner has a taste for architecture. He bought their brownstone ten years ago for fifteen million dollars and completely restored it to its 19th century appearance."

"Anything else on him?" Elliot inquired.

"He's your suspect?" Alex quickly asked.

"I didn't like him. He was smarmy. Something about the way he touched her just made me uncomfortable. She'll never tell us anything when he's around."

"Interview her again tomorrow after Daddy goes to work. Now, see if you can talk to the friend again. See if she knows anything that might be of use." Cragen ordered. It wasn't often that he spoke so brusquely, but when he did, the detectives knew to listen, and quickly. They headed to the car and drove uptown, silently thinking about what they would ask Ophelia.

They knocked on the Evans' door and were quickly greeted by a butler, "May I help you?"

"NYPD, is Ophelia home?"

"Miss…" he started to call.

"No need Franz," Ophelia appeared at his shoulder, "I've got it. Thank you. Come," she led them up to her room, "So, it was all a mistake, right?" She flopped on her bed and turned to them, "Is Immy fine?"

"Ophelia, what can you tell us about Imogen?"

"Why?"

"She wouldn't talk to us."

"Maybe that means nothing's wrong."

"Ophelia," Olivia was solemn, "have you ever noticed anything odd going on? Has Imogen been secretive or sick a lot lately?"

"Immy and I have been friends since Kindergarten. She's quiet, you know. Never likes to talk about herself. Never has. It doesn't mean anything's going on," she looked at their faces, "But you know something is, don't you?" They nodded, and she sighed, "She…I don't know if this means anything, but she hoards food."

"What?"

"She…" Ophelia paused, "It's hard to explain. Have you seen her?" They nodded, "Well then, you've seen how little she is. She barely eats. She brings lunch to school every day, and it's always this little tiny sandwich and a piece of fruit. We all buy lunch, you know, the rest of our friends, but she just comes along. She never accepts food from us, if we offer to let her have some. But like, sometimes she'll come to my house for dinner or a sleepover, and she'll just…" she paused, "I don't want you to think she's a freak. She's not. She just piles the food on her plate, and I know she means to eat it. I mean…I know she wants to. But she never can. Her eyes are always too big for her stomach. And like, we have tons of snacks in our cupboard, and she'll sneak some home. She doesn't know that I know. Once, I went to her house, and there was almost no food in the fridge. So she showed me the hiding place in her room where she keeps her food. It's a floorboard under her bed. I don't know. I always thought that was weird. But I didn't say anything to her because she made it this big state secret."

"What is she like at school?" Olivia was scribbling down notes as the girl spoke.

Ophelia hesitated, uncomfortable, "Immy, well, she's the smartest person I know. I mean, she doesn't seem it because she's so quiet, but she's brilliant. She's probably a genius. She always gets amazing grades, and if she doesn't, she gets really upset. She doesn't like to talk though. We talk a lot, but that's only because we've been friends forever. She doesn't have a lot of friends, mostly because she doesn't like talking to new people. She mostly hangs out with my friends and me. They like her enough, I guess," she paused, "I don't know. It's hard to summarize her."

"Besides hoarding food, does she do anything unusual?"

Ophelia stopped to think, "I mean, this is probably because she's so skinny, but she wears long clothes a lot. Leggings and sweatshirts. Even when it's warm outside. But like I said, she's literally always cold. I've never seen her sweat. You saw her, you know she has to weigh maybe eighty pounds at the most." They nodded. Imogen had been so thin, she'd almost been translucent, "So I never thought it was weird, for her at least."

"And what about her parents? Does she get along with them?"

"I don't know," Ophelia shrugged, "I don't think her mom is around a lot, and I know her dad's really protective. He doesn't let her to a lot of stuff. She can't go out a lot, and she really can't have people over unless he's away. He's super strict about the way she dresses, and kinds of things she does after school. She said he wants her to go to the best college she can, and that's why he's always on top of her about things. She doesn't like when people criticize him though. I once asked her why he was so anal, and she didn't speak to me for a week. That was the only time I've ever seen her really mad at anything before."

"So she and her dad, they're close?" Elliot couldn't help asking, "Typical dad/daughter?"

Ophelia shrugged again, "I don't know if they're close. He's just kind of…I don't know. I don't like him that much. He weirds me out a little. Whenever I went over for a sleepover, he would always be pushing his head in the door and asking questions and stuff. There's just something about him that makes me uncomfortable. But like I said, Imogen won't let anyone say a word against him."

Olivia brushed a bit of hair behind her ear, "Has she ever said anything to you? Ever mentioned anything suspicious?"

"No, never," Ophelia paused, thinking, "Like I said, she really doesn't like to talk about herself," she sighed, "she's a tough person to be friends with, but she's my best friend. Is she okay?"

Elliot paused, "We really believe she might be in trouble. Anything you can tell us about her would help."

Ophelia started to speak, but paused as her phone made a sound, "One sec," she scanned the screen, the blood draining from her face, "It's her."

"Imogen?"

"Yes," Ophelia put a finger to her lips, "Don't make a sound," she pressed a button, and quiet breathing could be heard throughout the room, "Hello?"

"Hey," Imogen's voice was even softer than before.

"Hey, what's up?" Ophelia tried to sound cheerful, "What time do you want me to drop your bag off?"

"You know," Imgoen paused, and her voice sounded hoarse, as though she had just been screaming, "I don't know if I'll be feeling well enough tomorrow for you to bring it over. Could you just wait until Thursday?"

"Yeah sure," Ophelia collected herself, "You okay?"

"Mhm," Imogen replied, "Fine."

"Sure? Are you going to the doctor tomorrow? You should get this checked out."

"It's just a bad cold," Imogen's pitch raised in irritation, "I'm fine."

"Want me to come over tomorrow after school? We can watch a movie or something."

"I don't want to get you sick," they could hear what sounded like a hammer, and Imogen's voice got even softer, "I have to go. See you Thursday."

"Bye," Ophelia turned to the detectives, "I always thought that was just the way she talked on the phone."

"She does that a lot?"

"Hangs up suddenly, yeah," Ophelia soberly looked at the floor, "Why didn't I notice anything? I never…I could have protected her. She's so small, she can't defend herself," she started to cry, "I'm a terrible friend," she looked up, "If someone's hurting Immy, it has to be her dad. He's the only one who sees her all the time."

"You said her mom's not around a lot. Do you know where she is?"

Ophelia shrugged, "If you think Immy's closemouthed about herself, she's even worse about her mother. I've never even heard Immy mention her. I thought she was dead until I met her."

"What about Imogen's biological father?" Olivia gently asked.

"What do you mean? I already told you about Immy's dad."

The detectives looked at each other, "Imogen lives with her stepfather."

"What?" Ophelia looked stunned, "Then who's her biological dad?"

"He lives in California. She never told you that?" Ophelia shook her head, "Imogen's stepfather adopted her when she was three."

"Oh my god," Ophelia looked as though she was going to faint, "she never said a word. Why do you think she didn't tell me? It's not like I would judge her. Lots of kids have divorced parents. She knows I wouldn't think it was a big deal," she paused, "What else hasn't she told me?"

"Don't blame yourself. You've already said that Imogen is tight-lipped. If she doesn't say anything, it's not because she thinks you don't care. Victims tend to keep to themselves."

"I'm sorry, I can't talk anymore," Ophelia stood, "If you'll please leave."

"Sure," Olivia put her hand on Ophelia's shoulder, "Don't blame yourself. You couldn't have known." They soberly left, Olivia flinching when Ophelia slammed the door behind them, "Poor kid," she commented, "Poor kid. She thought she knew Imogen better than anyone, and we went and sprung this on her."

"Yeah," Elliot was quiet for a moment, "Well, at least we've found our suspect. Sounds like no one else would even have access to Imogen. But why do you think he took her out into that alley?"

"I don't know. All I do know is that I wish we could break into her house. I bet you anything Nick won't let her out because we were there," Olivia pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, trying not to cry, "Sometimes this whole damn justice system bothers me. I mean, we know she's in trouble."

"But we can't get her," Elliot finished, "At least not until tomorrow," he checked his watch, "It's eight now. Let's just go home."

"It's early yet," Olivia protested, "I'll just go back to the precinct for a bit."

"Liv, you're not going to find anything. An absent mother, an overbearing stepfather, and a nearly mute girl combine to make a case without any cracks or fissures. Without talking to Imogen, you're not going to be able to get any sort of information on the father. I guarantee you that there's nothing suspicious we'd be able to find."

Olivia balled her hands into fists, "Maybe not, but I'm going to try. I'll see you tomorrow."


	9. Chapter 9

As the sun rose, Olivia rolled over and groaned. She'd been up half the night searching every available resource for any sort of information on Nicholas or Imogen Tanner. All she'd found was a squeaky clean family. Some pictures of Nicholas and his wife at charity galas, impeccable tax forms, and a whole bunch of awards that Imogen had won throughout the years. Really, it was almost depressing how perfect this family seemed from the outside. Though she knew better, Olivia began to doubt herself and this whole case. Had she just imagined the fear in Imogen's eyes? How certain could she really be that Morales' identification of the bag was correct? And how did they even know that it was Imogen's bag? Was she jumping to conclusions because of the way Imogen looked? Some people were just naturally tiny; there was no need to think anything was off because Imogen was small. In this size-obsessed culture of theirs, it was possible that Imogen had some sort of eating disorder. Tragic, but no crime, and not something they had any jurisdiction over. Even their interviews with Ophelia were suspect. Maybe they had terrorized Ophelia into thinking something was wrong with her friend. After all, the girl hadn't noticed anything in ten years. But then Olivia had remembered the way Imogen's voice cracked as she whispered, "Please," and she knew that this girl needed help.

When Elliot entered the crib, the first thing he saw was Olivia's hair strewn all over the pillow. Her forehead was furrowed and she was mumbling something as she flopped from side to side, "Liv," he gently shook her, "Liv. Wake up. It's nearly eight o'clock."

"Mnpmgh," she opened her eyes a slit, "Dun wanna." She pulled the covers over her head and curled up in the fetal position.

"Liv," he felt as though he was waking up one of his children, "Come on. We've got to see Imogen," he was glad to see that she yawned and straightened up, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands, "I brought you some coffee," he smiled and held out a cup.

"Not Munch's, I hope," she took a sip and made a satisfied face, "Good."

"I brewed my own batch," Elliot sniffed the air, "Notice how it doesn't smell like grease and charred wood." She laughed and he grinned, "You think after thirty years as a cop, he would have learned how to make a decent cup of coffee," when he saw the lines under her eyes, he grimaced, "How late were you up?"

"I think I got to bed around three."

"Find anything?"

"Not even close," she sighed, "If I didn't know better, I'd say they're the perfect family and Imogen lives a charmed life," she put her head in her hands, "El, I can't help feeling that something is terribly wrong. Can we go check on her?"

"Sure."

Half an hour later, they were parked across the street from the Tanner brownstone. Each detective was poised over another cup of coffee, silently staring at the door. Sometimes Olivia thought this was the worst part of a case – the waiting. Seeing injuries and hearing descriptions of abuse was horrifying, but this waiting for something to happen felt like a knife in the gut. Without extenuating circumstances, they had to be content to sit and hope that Imogen wasn't being harmed, "There he goes," Olivia commented as the door opened and Nicholas Tanner appeared. He glanced down the street before hopping into the parked limousine and speeding away.

Elliot put a hand on Olivia's shoulder, "Wait," he cautioned, "we need to know that he's not coming back," Olivia grimaced, but sat back down. They waited another fifteen minutes before Elliot would allow them to get out of the car and walk up to the door. He rang the bell, listening for any movement inside. When he pressed his ear to the door, he could hear a slight scuffle, like a mouse running across the marble entryway. He knocked, "Imogen?" They waited, which seemed to be the activity of the day, "Imogen, it's Detectives Benson and Stabler. Could we please speak to you again? Imogen, are you there?" Again the scuffle, and Elliot was pretty sure that it was Imogen on the other side of the door, "Imogen, your father's at work for the day, and we really need to talk to you. Please?"

"Here, let me," Olivia motioned him away from the door, "Imogen, honey. Please let us in. We're worried sick about you."

"I'm fine," came the whisper, "Please leave me alone."

"We can't do that until we know for a fact that you're all right. Please let us in?"

"My father said I'm not supposed to." It was the kind of response they got from small children, not teenagers, and it made Olivia's blood run cold. The terror in Imogen's voice felt like nails against Olivia's skin and the detective shuddered.

She pressed closer to the door and spoke to the crack, "He won't know, I promise," Olivia tried to make her voice as warm and engaging as possible, "Honey, please?" Olivia hoped that endearments would touch Imogen's love-starved heart enough to get her to trust them.

They could hear the lock slowly turn and the creak of the door as it opened. The wraithlike figure who greeted them bore little resemblance to the Imogen they had seen yesterday. She was wearing a thick scarf that covered her mouth, and huge sunglasses over her eyes, so that the tip of her nose was the only part of her face that was showing. Olivia immediately grabbed Elliot's sleeve and telegraphed her fears through wide eyes. Imogen stood in the entryway, arms crossed over her chest.

"Aren't you warm?" Elliot inquired. The girl just shrugged and turned away, "Could we sit and talk?"

"You said it wasn't going to take long," her voice was raw and cracked, "What do you want?" The detectives could see that she was trembling like a leaf, her hostile posture barely hiding her shivering jaw.

"Are you okay? Olivia put her hands on the girl's shoulders, "If anyone's hurting you, if anything's happening that you don't like, you can tell us. We're here to protect you," she looked deep into Imogen's face, "Sweetie, you can trust us." Olivia was never sure what had done it, but Imogen seemed to overflow. She didn't sob, just gently and quietly boiled over. Tears welled up in her eyes and poured down her face, catching in her scarf, and smudging her concealer. She pressed into Olivia, who wrapped her arms around the girl and let her cry into her jacket. When Imogen was finished, she stood back and hesitated. Silently, she reached up and took her sunglasses off before unwinding the scarf and letting it drop to the floor. Olivia had to stop herself from gasping at the sight. The girl's eyes were swollen and bruised. Her lips were caked with dried blood, and her face was an assortment of bruises. Some faded, others recent enough that Olivia knew she'd been beaten last night. She remembered the odd tinge Imogen's face had had the day before, and she realized it was because there was not a single inch of skin that was not discolored by a bruise. The girl had coated her face in concealer because it was the only way she could expose it without exposing the marks. Imogen then took off her sweatshirt, which revealed a thin body, dotted with bruises, welts, cuts, and scars. Olivia heard Elliot breathe in sharply when Imogen turned around and took off her shirt. In addition to the bones protruding from her back, the girl's flesh was crisscrossed with belt marks, swollen and distorted beyond recognition. They were fresh, and Olivia guessed they came from yesterday afternoon, between the detectives' visit and when Imogen and Ophelia had spoken on the phone. On the girl's left shoulder was a deep rope-like scar that, upon closer investigation, looked as though it had been made with a hot iron.

The sound of Imogen clearing her throat snapped Olivia back to attention, "What do you want to know?"


	10. Chapter 10

"We have to get you to a hospital," Olivia urged while Elliot pulled out his walkie-talkie, "You have extensive injuries, and they need to be looked at."

The girl snorted, "No thanks," she put her shirt back on, "I don't want medical care." She put her sweatshirt on and pulled the hood over her head, rotating her shoulders so that she was swimming in the giant grey garment.

"Imogen, please. Have you seen your back?" Elliot put the walkie-talkie down. They couldn't take her to the hospital without her consent, as her injuries were not life threatening. And they were well aware that Imogen's father would never give permission for her to be taken to the hospital, "We're just trying to help."

Imogen shook her head, "I washed it," she smiled grimly, "I have experience treating my own wounds. I've never gotten an infection yet." She abruptly turned and walked into the living room, "I can't do anything about the scars though. Except hope they're pretty," it was the gallows humor they sometimes encountered from intelligent, world-weary victims of chronic abuse, but Olivia still found it jarring. She wanted nothing more than to hold the girl close, but she could see that Imogen was already ashamed of her outburst.

"Can you tell us who did this to you?" They followed her, sitting on the chairs they had used just the day before.

"Do you know that if you close your eyes, or rather, if one closes one's eyes," she shrugged, "you can pull pain with your mind from one place to another?" She looked up at them, "Spreading pain throughout your whole body makes it easier to bear."

Olivia leaned forwards, "Can you tell us when this started?"

"Oh, for as long as I can remember," she smiled, "do you want something to drink?"

Elliot was the first to speak, "Sure," he smiled politely as she left, "She's regretting it," he commented, "she's regretting letting us know that something was wrong. It's best to back off and just ask her general questions about her life, see if she brings us back to the abuse." He straightened up when Imogen came back in the room holding two cups of water, "Thank you."

"Sorry, but we don't have anything else in the house," she handed one to each detective and curled up in the chair opposite to them.

"So Imogen, tell us about yourself," Olivia decided to try the course Elliot had suggested. He was usually right about such things. She assumed it was because he had five kids. Victims may have usually been more comfortable with Olivia, but it was Elliot who was more comfortable around then.

"Like what?"

"What do you like to do? What kinds of things are you interested in?" Imogen shrugged, but Olivia continued, "We heard from your principal that you're very intelligent." No need to tell her that they'd been talking to Ophelia.

"You spoke to my principal?" Imogen screeched, "How could you do that?" She put her head in her hands as her shoulders shook.

"You've won all kinds of awards too," Olivia continued as though she hadn't heard Imogen's outburst, "Do you know which college you want to go to? I'm sure you're going to have your pick."

Imogen lifted her head slightly and shrugged, "My dad wants me to stay in the city and go to Hudson, but I don't want that," as she brushed her hair away from her forehead, Olivia was struck by the girl's soft movements, the quiet way in which she did everything, as though she were afraid to cause any sort of problem.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Stanford," she laughed, "or Oxford."

"Far."

She shifted uncomfortably, "Yeah, well, I want to get away," she looked at her fingers, "Do you ever want to walk?"

Elliot broke in, "I walk every day."

Her voice rose slightly in irritation, "I didn't mean that."

"What did you mean?" Olivia glared at her partner, warning him to keep his mouth shut. Imogen wasn't yet comfortable enough around him for any of his questions.

"I mean, walk forever. Just keep walking for the rest of your life. I don't know. Or drive. Sometimes, when," she paused, "when this is happening," she gestured to her bruises, "I imagine that I'm driving down an empty highway, listening to music, and that for once, I'm all alone, and I'm happy. It's just a dream because I don't know how to drive. My dad never let me learn. He says that since we live in the city and have a driver, there's no point. He doesn't want me to leave him. My mom, she goes to all sorts of spas and things out in the west, because she has these terrible headaches and back pain and stuff. She's been sick for years, and they make her feel better. And she says that when you're alone in the desert, under the stars, you can believe that you're going to live forever. She doesn't know," Imogen said fiercely, balling her hands into fists, "I made sure of that. It would kill her if she ever knew. Sometimes," she continued, "I feel as though I'm the mother and she's the child, even though I'm so little. In size, I mean. Not that I'm young. You know, sometimes I think I might as well be a million years old, for how young I feel. He's so good for her. He takes care of her and lets her go to all those spas and buy everything she wants. He never raises his voice or hurts her or anything," tears welled up in her eyes and she roughly brushed them away, "If I tell you what happened, do you promise that you won't arrest my mom? I swear she's not a bad parent; she loves me so much. The only reason I've put up with it is for her."

"If your mother is honestly innocent, than she has nothing to fear. Detective Stabler and I are not in the habit of arresting people who haven't committed crimes." Olivia grimly replied.

Imogen took a deep breath, "I don't know when it started. I mean, when I was little, it was just kind of touching and stuff. Hugging, kissing. I got used to sitting on his lap and feeling him," she winced and her face turned red, "under me. He was always really strict and punished me a lot. He used to spank me, make me take off my underwear and lie on his lap. I don't know," she blushed and squirmed, "I'm sorry, it's difficult to talk about it. I don't know what to say."

"Would it help if we asked you questions?" Olivia inquired, "And you could respond to them."

"Yeah."

"When did it first become overtly sexual?"

"When I was six, maybe seven. That's when he started putting his hands under my clothes. I used to…I used to ask him to stop, but he told me that was what all daddies did with their daughters, and that I should be happy to do this for my daddy, who was so nice to me and my mom. So I let him. He said I couldn't tell my mom because it was something special, and she wouldn't understand. And then he told me that I had to do something else for him. He made me…" she put her head down in shame, "give him head. He would put honey on it so I wouldn't gag, but I hated it," she'd started to tear up, brushing them from her eyes, "I would cry the whole time, until he started hitting me with his belt. Then I learned to keep quiet."

"How often would he hit you?"

"Probably every few days. He liked to spank me more then. He would make me get the spoon from the kitchen and ask him to punish me for being a bad girl. I knew…I knew it wasn't right, but I had to. My mom loves him, and she'd be devastated if they broke up. He started whipping me until I bled. I used to bandage myself up and go to school with blood seeping down my back. He would watch me when I bathed, make me wash him," she shifted uncomfortably, her cheeks flushed pink, "I was so stupid; I thought it was going to get better. And he never used to hurt me like this. I could always put up with the pain for my mom. You know, my real dad, my biological one, he lives out in California, and he never even sends her the child support she's entitled to. He ditched her when I was a baby and I haven't seen him since I was four. She needs someone to love her. And he does. He loves her so much. If I didn't think it was for the best, I wouldn't have kept quiet for so long. And he hasn't done anything to me that sent me to the hospital."

Olivia had to bite her lip to stop herself from screaming. The way Imogen so quietly defended herself as if she was the one who had done something wrong was making the detective sick to her stomach. The girl was folded up in her chair, eyes red but chin resolute. It was clear how much she adored her mother and how hard she had tried to make her mother's life as easy as possible. As much as Olivia understood Imogen's reasoning and motives, she also knew that Imogen had burdened her mother with even more guilt. To have her husband abuse her daughter was one thing, but to know that her daughter had deliberately hidden it to protect her was the sort of blow that could bring any woman to her knees. "When did he start raping you?"

Imogen tightened up, "When I was nine. He…it hurt so much the first time that I passed out. He said it was a sign that we had to keep going, keep practicing. Eventually the needle gave because the camel could not. Maya Angelou," she explained,_ "I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings._ Eventually I got used to it and it stopped hurting so much. I guess you can kind of get used to anything after a while." She buried her head in her arms.


End file.
